Angel Of Death
by La Pasionaria
Summary: In this story, Alex Rider must foil a group of international terrorist's plan to destroy London with a nuclear missile. There's only one problem, however: MI6 has been attacked by the terrorists. They know where he lives. They know what he eats, and where
1. The Triton

Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.

Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.

Angel Of Death

An Alex Rider Story

The sun scorched the thick scrub of the southern Russian plains. Plumes of black smoke rose like wraith-like towers from the militarised complex. A column of cars and trucks wove around the hills towards the complex, which straddled the land like a large spider, a thick body with eight tendrils spreading out up onto the hills. Each tendril was topped with a vast mounted gun, each with an excellent arc of fire over the facility. The first car slowed down as it reached the main gate, and the guards on duty at the checkpoint walked forwards. One strolled around each side of the car, and a third stayed in front, armed with a heavy-duty sawn-off shotgun. The man driving the car wound down his window, his sole passenger did the same on the other side.

"Can I help you?" the driver asked, holding up an identification card to the guard.

"You are English?" the guard asked, his heavy Russian accent distorting his words.

"No, I'm Irish." The Irishman's words weren't understood. "_Irlanski_?" The Russian guard nodded, and the Irishman continued, "I'm a doctor from the Atomic Energy Research Commission, and I've been told to recover an amount of non-refined plutonium for the AERC's Executive Research Division. Can we go through?"

"I am very sorry, but I will have to ask my superior-" The Irishman moved with blinding speed. He drew a low-calibre handgun, aimed and fired. The Russian guard jerked slightly, then collapsed to the floor. The Irishman's passenger drew a similar gun and fired at the guard on his side. The two Russians crumpled, and the sole survivor aimed the shotgun, straight at the cars windshield. The Irishman rose and fired again, a brief volley of hollowpoint bullets slamming into the Russian's chest and throat, spurting red as they sliced through skin and muscles. The Irishman tossed aside his small handgun and picked up the dead man's shotgun. He checked the corpse for any more ammunition, and placed the cartridges in his left pocket. It was then that the main body of the convoy crested the last hill and sped towards the main gate. The Irishman's passenger, a tall, Norse man with blond hair and blue yes, tossed a grenade at the gate. Both of the men sprinted a short way back, and the thick iron gate exploded. They jumped back into their car and drove through, leading the way into the complex.

The Irishman's car sped through the complex towards the centre. At strategic intervals, trucks left the convoy, driving towards the gun embankments and barracks, their crew of heavily armed soldiers loading deadly assault weapons. But the main body of the convoy, three trucks and the Irishman's car, kept on going, heading with single-minded precision towards the underground bunker at the heart of the complex. They braked to a halt next to the bunker's gateway. A small platoon of Russian soldiers strolled into place to block their progress. Their leader, a short man with a captain's uniform, called out, first in Russian, then in English. The Irishman got out of his car, flanked by the giant Nordic. On cue, the rest of the soldiers exited the trucks.

"What is your business here?" asked the captain, his thick Russian accent disguising the irritation in his voice. The Irishman raised his pistol, a Raptor Magnum .50 calibre, one of the strongest production handguns in the world. He flicked the safety off and the laser sight on.

"We have come for the missiles. If you want to live, then you will throw down your weapons and leave this base now." Fear flickered in the captain's eyes, and the Irishman shot him. The Russians reached for their weapons, but hesitated when a flurry of laser sights played across their chests. The Irishman's soldiers were carrying AK-47 automatic rifles, high-powered and fully tooled up with laser sights and sniper scopes.

"That was a warning. If you do not surrender now, we will kill each and every one of you. You have ten seconds." One Russian, in a lieutenant's uniform, raised his pistol and stepped forwards. The Nordic fired a blast from the shotgun, and the lieutenant's mangled body fell to the ground. The other soldiers surrendered rather quickly after that, not only throwing down their guns, but also all their magazines of ammunition, radios and even field rations. The Irishman nodded.

"You have done well. Now run, unless you want to be mown down!" The Russian's ran, weaving like foxes over the muddied ground. The Irishman gestured, and his troops fired. The rifles spat out brief pulses of high-calibre bullets, each one singing into the soldier's backs. They died to a man, completely wiped out. The Irishman laughed and strode into the bunker. Half of his troops, including the Nordic, followed. The others assumed guard positions outside, ready to fire at anything or anyone who moved.

The Irishman led his troops through a labyrinth of tunnels. Dark tunnels, light by bare low-wattage bulbs, most broken and the others grimy. Dank tunnels, where the only clear path through was following a small railway track into the bowels of the earth. The Irishman's troops crouched and weaved, hiding behind cover wherever possible, and their automatic weapons never left their shoulders. They approached the only lift down into the heart of the facility. The Storeroom. After the break-up of Communist Russia, many of it's nuclear weapons had been stolen, hijacked by terrorists and spies. So, in a fit of conscience, the new Russian President had recently converted rural military bases into strongholds for nuclear missiles, burying them underground in the middle of the countryside, miles out of the public eye. But not anymore. The Irishman strolled up to the lift's reinforced doors, and pressed the radio button. The lifts in these facilities couldn't simply be called down by buttons, but instead only by a radio message.

"Hello down there!" The Irishman called out in flawless Russian, "I'm a terrorist with a big gun! Could I buy one of those nuclear missiles you've got?" There was nothing but static on the other end. The Irishman waited patiently, and sure enough the tunnel started to rumble as the lift rose up. The Irishman grinned, and his giant Nordic bodyguard moved into place with the rest of the troops, their laser sights switched off. The lift doors opened, and the cavernous lift beyond disgorged half a dozen Russian soldiers, each clutching a sawn-off shotgun and a Sig 9mm pistol. They surrounded the Irishman, who had hidden his Magnum.

"What are you doing here?" Their leader barked. The Irishman grinned.

"This." On cue, dozens of laser sights flickered and danced over the Russian's chests. The Russian's leader stopped and swore, once, before the bullets ripped through the subterranean air. The Russian soldiers dropped, their weapons falling from lifeless fingers. The Irishman and his troops stepped over the corpses and into the lift.

The lift doors gave a merry _ding!_ And opened. Then the Irishman's troops opened fire. The Russian technicians and guards dropped under the constant chatter of automatic weapons-fire, with alternate bass blasts from the Magnum and the sawn-off. The Storeroom was cleared in under a minute. The Irishman strode over to the nearest nuclear missile. It was a four point five megaton Triton ICBM. The terrorist leader slit open a small compartment on the missile, and withdrew the PAL card. This small object, the size of a credit card, was actually a global positioning satellite transmitter, relaying the missile's exact location to the Russian government. The Irishman placed it within his pocket, and gestured. His troops folded the missile down from its rack, placing it upon something resembling a miniature train-cart. They dragged this onto a set of train-tracks inside the lift, and crowded inside. The lift left the Storeroom on it's upwards journey.

Outside, the Russian soldiers were regrouping. Although the terrorists controlled all eight of the gun embankments, they hadn't fired yet. This gave ample opportunity for the surviving soldiers to regroup and return to the bunker. With a vengeance. The Irishman's forces were getting restless. The Russian's leader raised a hand, and his troops charged. A few terrorists were taken down before they realised what was happening. But then they returned fire, raking the buildings clear of soldiers with pinpoint accurate assault fire and liberal amounts of hand grenades. All of a sudden, the Irishman and his troops emerged from the bunker, dragging the Triton behind them. The Russian's leader immediately ordered all their fire on the missile. Nuclear missiles are extremely well armoured, however, so the few shots that struck it glanced off. The missile was loaded into a truck, and the terrorists scrambled onboard. The Russians pursued on foot, and were therefore in a perfect position to watch as the Irishman raised a Stinger heat-seeking rocket launcher. He pointed the tube at the Russians and pulled the trigger. A tongue of flame shot out of the rear of the launcher as the rocket sped forwards. It slammed into the ground just before the Russians and detonated, sending the soldiers sprawling, wrapped in blankets of fire. The Irishman lowered the rocket launcher and laughed.

The terrorist's convoy arrived at a small airfield a few miles from the base. Only when the last truck had drawn to a halt did the Irishman produce a small remote from inside his coat. He pressed the single red button in its matte black shell. Five miles away, back at the compound, all eight of the gun embankments exploded. The ammunition caught next, and the pillars of flame hurled the massive barrels down into the base. The Irishman grinned as narrow columns of smoke sprouted into the sky, and he turned to the mute Nordic giant.

"Eric, I want you to pilot the reserve plane. Take the troops to Liverpool, as instructed." The giant nodded and strode towards a small Cessna plane. The Irishman turned towards the other two planes. "Now then, I want the PAL card to be taken aboard that plane. Fly to Moscow, as instructed, and play the radio message." A terrorist nodded. "OK, now let's load this hunk of junk," he slapped the nuclear missile playfully, "Onto the Cessna. Remember the plan: We fly to London."

"What about MI6?" A terrorist asked fearfully.

"What about them? They'll have enough on their hands besides us."

"What do you mean, boss?" The terrorist replied.

"A few dozen kegs of C-4 in Liverpool Street's basement. Think that'll keep them off our backs?"

"And what about the kid? Rider, or whatever his name is?" The Irishman grinned.

"Again, don't worry. He'll be dead before the morning."


	2. The Hunt

Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.

Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.

**Angel Of Death Chapter 2:**

**The Hunt**

Chelsea, London. The quiet hum of electrical devices fills the air, accentuated with loud vocal outbursts and the constant grumble of car traffic. In the midst of this, a teenage boy cycles home from a long day at school. His blonde hair blows back in the breeze to reveal haunted eyes, scarred by what he has seen, by what he has done, by what he has experienced. Old mans eyes, in a boys face. This is Alex Rider, and if you looked at him you would hardly notice him. He was above average height, but not by much, not too thin and not too fat. In fact, he looked like the average teenage Londoner. But how many teenagers of any nationality have been forced to become a spy?

Alex Rider got down from his bike at the end of the street, and wheeled it home. He pulled out his key and opened the door, calling to Jack Starbright, his oldest friend and housekeeper, as he did.

"Jack, I'm sorry I'm late back but the class got held in for a few minutes…" His voice died away as he looked around the normally spotless living room. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the once-comfortable sofa had been ripped apart as if by a knife. Alex instinctively dropped down slightly, lowering his centre of gravity.

"Jack? Are you there?"

"I'm in the kitchen Alex!" Her voice sounded strained and hurt. Alex knew it was a trap, but he had no choice, he couldn't let Jack get hurt. He quickly glanced around his surroundings, searching for a weapon. The television? Too heavy. A cushion? Too soft. The vase? Perfect, as long as there was only one villain. He shrugged and picked it up anyway, moving to the kitchen door.

"Are you OK Jack?" he called.

"I'm fine Alex, just please get in here!" Her voice sounded panicked, fearful. Alex placed one hand against the door, and glanced around the edges. He could see the shadows of at least three people. The keyhole revealed that one was standing next to Jack, on the left side, while the other was holding out an arm on the right, clutching an unseen weapon. Alex braced himself.

"I'm coming now," he called, "Hang on." He leant backwards, then crashed his foot into the door, spinning it open. He sprang through as the man on the right fired, once, before realising that he could hit his friend. Alex rolled as he hit the ground, and stood up. The man with the gun aimed again and fired. Alex threw himself to one side and the vase at the man's head. It struck the man hard in the face. He groaned, once, and then collapsed. Alex reached down and picked up the man's gun. He turned, pointing it at the man holding Jack.

"Let her go," he whispered. The man stayed silent, his gun thrust firmly into Jack's neck. "I said, let her go!" Alex roared. The gun, a Belgian-made FN semi-automatic, weighed heavily in his hand on his conscience. Alex had trained at Scorpia's academy on Malagosto, and he knew for a fact that he could never kill anyone in cold blood. His only chance was to bluff the man into letting Jack go. After that, he didn't care what happened to him. The man spoke, interrupting his musings.

"You are Alex Rider, I presume?" His voice was thick with an American accent and remained icily calm, despite the gun pointed at his head with an unwavering hand. "I thought as much. The agency was incredibly accurate, even down to your address and school timetable. No," he warned, "Don't even think about moving. If you do, then I will be forced to kill Ms. Starbright here. We know how much she means to you. Besides that, she put up a struggle as we entered the house, and even firing shots into the wall didn't intimidate her. She hurt me rather badly, and it would be a pleasure for me to kill her." The man jabbed the gun further into Jack's neck. Unseen by Alex, he was holding another gun in his other arm, wrapped around Jack's left arm, and pointing straight at the teenager's chest. "The agency who employs me is rather concerned that you might try to stop certain, ah, _activities_ we have planned, and so they sent us to dispatch you."

"I hate to sound clichéd, but you'll never get away with this!" The man smirked at Alex's indignant fury. MI6 had gotten him into trouble again!

"Oh yes? And why would that be? You are not working for MI6 at the moment. You have no gadgets. Nothing. You only have a gun with two rounds left, but the fact that you didn't shot me straight away proves that you are unwilling to use it. You're too far away for any karate, and I have a gun jammed into the neck of one of your best friends." He sniffed. "So why won't I get away?"

"Because the house is riddled with bullet holes. Nobody has a gun in Chelsea, so you two won't be hard to track down. Our sofa's ripped apart, and the broken vase in here's a dead giveaway. Put all this together, and MI6 will be down on you and your agency like a ton of bricks with automatic weapons." The man laughed.

"The agency thought of that. That's why that case over there," He nodded towards a matte black attaché case in the corner, "Contains a five-kilogram block of Semtex plastic explosive. We'll strap it to your dead bodies, set the timer and drive off. Then it's just a fatal gas leak." He pretended to sniff. "Tragic." His finger tightened on the unseen trigger.

"Let Jack go and take me instead! You won't tell anybody, would you Jack?" She shook her head furiously, and mumbled angrily through her thick gag, hopping with rage. The man silenced her by jabbing the gun more sharply into her neck.

"Shut up!" He turned to Alex. "There's no point trying to deal with us now, boy. We know you have nothing, no gadgets, no skills, no time, nothing! You won't show us up again, I swear on it!" His finger tightened on the unseen trigger until it squeaked. He fired. The concealed gun spat its deadly payload at Alex, who twisted and fell awkwardly to the floor. The bullet flew past, pounding a hole in the plasterboard kitchen wall. The man dropped Jack and fired with the other gun. The .44 Magnums' blasts, muted by a silencer, screamed overhead as Alex rolled. The man stepped over Jack and stood next to Alex, the pistol aimed between his eyes. Alex stared up at the barrel, lengthened by the silencer, grinning at him like a cobra. An idea formed in his mind, a crazy, risky idea. He knew that if he thought about it his brain would reject it. The man cocked the pistol.

"Goodbye, Ian's whelp," the man said, and pulled the trigger.

Alex's hand darted upwards in a crescent as the man finished speaking, and slapped the barrel away. The bullet slammed into the door, blowing a quarter-inch dent into its thick oak finish. The man yanked the pistol back and swung it at Alex again, but Alex moved before he could finish, snapped his leg straight. His foot slammed upwards into the most vulnerable area of any man, and his assailant dropped the gun. Alex picked it up instantly as the man collapsed. He pointed it at the man's head. Then he saw the tattoo. On the back of his neck, an angel, with wings outstretched and hands held apart. But this angel was carrying a sword in one hand and a human heart in the other, and its body was covered in blood. Its face was a picture of malice; dark, narrowed eyes staring blindly from a screaming face. Alex recoiled at the sight and dropped the gun. The man stood up, rage spilling across his face like oil across water. He picked Alex up by the collar and belt and hurled him to the floor. Alex groaned, winded, as the man ran across towards the kitchen window, overlooking the back garden. Alex picked up the gun as the man smashed through the thickened glass window and sprinted towards the garden wall. Alex struggled to keep up, but was only halfway across the lawn as the man scaled the wall. He hovered at the top. Alex aimed and fired, hitting the would-be assassin in the leg, thanking Scorpia for his training in instinctive firing. The man stumbled over the wall. Alex heard him cry out as he landed. There was a sound of wood crunching. Alex leapt, caught the top of the wall with his hands, and scrabbled up. He rolled over and down, firing again. The butt slammed back into his hand as the Magnum spat into the doorframe, missing the wounded man's hand by an inch. The hand was withdrawn as it's owner stumbled up a flight of stairs. Alex followed, tossing the now empty handgun to the side. He rushed inside the building, up the stairs, started to turn the corner, and then was thrown back by a burly man in a black tracksuit. The top was emblazoned with the same design as the other man's tattoo, and its wearer carried a sword. Alex pressed himself closer to the wall, recognising the stance of a master. Nile, the man who had so very nearly killed him twice, had held his sword that way, with the relaxed confidence of an _iaido_ master. The sword hummed slightly as it skimmed the air inches in front of Alex's nose. The teenager darted backwards and bounced off the wall, twirling down towards the open alleyway. The sword-wielding man threw his weapon, and Alex dropped as it sliced the air above his blonde hair. The man jumped down to follow Alex, drawing a long, hook-pointed knife from his waistband. Alex jumped, span mid-air and kicked out, slamming his heel into the man's head, striking him just below the left ear. The man crumpled to the ground, twitching occasionally. Alex stopped, paused, and ran outside. He didn't have to deal with this on his own. A simple 999 phone call and a battalion of policemen would be pulling up with the equipment and training to deal with the situation. He turned towards the neighbourhood phone box, located a few dozen metres down the street. He pulled the door open and lifted the receiver to his ear. There was a blinding flash of light, and the glass panes shattered as his house exploded behind him. Alex was hurled against the telephone itself, and the plastic casing cracked. He disentangled himself from the phone wire and sprinted over. It was terrible. His home looked as though an angry giant had squeezed it, smashing the walls outwards with dreadful malice. But even as tears blurred his vision, a terrible, horrible thought exploded in his mind, scattering all other thoughts like the walls of his home. _Where is Jack? _Alex scrambled into the wreckage, then stopped himself as a large piece of rubble smashed to the ground a foot away from him, his dead uncle's desk breaking itself to pieces before his eyes. _Getting yourself killing won't help Jack!_ He screamed mentally. It was then that he noticed the small envelope lying on the ground next to him. It was black, like the scorched lawn, and had the same pseudo-angelic logo as a postmark. His name was written in silver ink on the front. He opened it with trembling fingers, and read:

_Hello Mr. Rider,_

_I represent a large agency, the same agency responsible for holding your friend Jack hostage, and also for blowing your house up. But I wish you no ill will, provided you follow our instructions. Firstly, be assured that, although the idea repels me, we WILL kill you if you do not comply with our wishes. We have your friend Jack, and we are not afraid to hurt her. Be assured that she will die slowly and painfully if you do not obey us._

_Our instructions are as follows: Travel to Liverpool in the next two days. When you're there, travel to the Crowne Plaza hotel. We will meet you there._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Jack O'Donnell, on behalf of the Angels Of Death._

Alex crumpled the note up, and let it roll down the street. Tears burned his eyes. They had just made some vital mistakes. Firstly, they attacked Alex Rider. Secondly, they told him where they were. Revenge seared Alex's brain, darker than the black envelope he still held in his hand. _Don't worry Jack_, he thought, _I'm coming._


	3. Old Acquaintances, New Friends

Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.

Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.

Oh, and a big thank you to my most stringent reviewers Wandira, Rotten Bunnies and Remussweetie, thanks for the encouragement and criticism )

Angel Of Death Chapter 3:

Old Acquaintances, New Friends

Alex cycled as far and as fast as he could. A taxi could have taken him to Liverpool Street quicker, but it felt good to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting in the back of a stuffy cab. The pedals stung his legs occasionally, and his reckless steering drew angry glares, but for the most part he passed unnoticed. He reached Liverpool Street quickly, and glanced up at the Royal And General Bank. Its front was flawless, just another bank on an already crowded street, but Alex knew that it was the secret headquarters for MI6, and he also knew that they were the only ones who could help him catch this Jack O'Donnell. The only problem was that MI6 had never let him inside without sending for him. So he was planning how to break into one of the most secure buildings in the entire country. He quickly rifled through his school backpack to check that he had everything he needed. A metal rod, a piece of newspaper, a pencil, a small MP3 player and headphones, a length of rope and a large hook taken from a reinforced coat hanger. He zipped up the bag again. Ready.

Alex got off his bike and stepped into an alleyway that ran alongside the Royal And General, slapping a thick bike chain onto it before he left its side. In the alley, deserted except for the inevitable rubbish and solitary rat, Alex crouched and glanced upwards. As he had hoped, a fire escape clung to the wall like a scared mountain climber, with an unexpected lone guard leaning against the railings. He was too far up to see Alex, and seemed bored, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingertips. Alex's brow creased as he contemplated various strategies for dealing with the man. He considered throwing something to try to knock him out, but even if Alex could hurl a piece of the fetid rubbish that far, he seriously doubted that it would knock the agent out. A straight-out confrontation was no good either, as the man was at least twice Alex's own weight and probably had a radio to call for back up. He decided to stick to the original plan. Alex scurried across the alleyway, directly underneath the fire escape's lowest stair, some ten feet above his head. Obviously MI6 wanted to ward off casual thieves. Alex tied the hook to the rope, and threw it upwards. He missed; falling short, and only managed to dodge out of the way by sheer luck. The second time he overshot, the hook landing with a clang on the rung and screeching horribly as Alex tugged it back. It simply couldn't get enough of a grip. The agent above straightened up, but settled back almost immediately. Alex breathed out in relief and threw the hook again. Bingo. It caught on the rung, and Alex brought his full weight to bear on the rope. The fire escape lowered itself down with barely a creak, obviously well oiled. Alex began to climb.

Above his head, the agent was annoyed. Not only had he been demoted for failing to recognise and stop Alex when he had been sent to kill Mrs. Jones, but now his cigarette had gone out. Absolutely bloody perfect. He patted his pockets, and glanced down. Alex looked up. The two stared at each other, separated only by a thin mesh grid. There was a moment of tense surprise, and then the agent reached inside his pocket. Alex didn't know whether he was reaching for a gun or a radio, but it didn't matter. The man had to be stopped. Alex sprinted up the last set of stairs as the man raised his radio to his ear, his hand on the 'Talk' button. Alex lashed out as the man clicked the button. His elbow caught the man on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. He caught him before he fell, and deftly removed the radio from the man's hand. He plugged in his MP3 player's headphones, and crouched next to the door. He glanced through the keyhole, and saw that it was blocked. He grinned. If MI6 hadn't left the key in the lock, he would have had to try to break his way through, and at the very least would have set off a few dozen alarms. He opened his backpack, and removed the pencil and sheet of newspaper. He carefully slid the newspaper under the door, and then poked the key out of the lock with the sharpened pencil. It fell onto the paper with a soft thud. Alex exhaled and pressed his ear to the door. If he messed up now, he'd never get the key. Slowly, he cupped the newspaper slightly, and drew it out under the door. He just managed to get it through. He grinned, resisted the impulse to laugh, and put the key in the lock. Next, he picked up the unconscious agent's radio, and slotted the MP3 player's headphones into it. He spun the dial experimentally. Great. Now Alex could hear everything they said on the intercom, at least to the guards. He turned the key and walked inside.

Alex Rider pressed his back against the corner and slowly leant around, trying to make as little noise as possible. The radio had stayed silent, so Alex assumed his entry had gone unnoticed. There, over by the low sofa in the corner. A large man stood, with a lump in his jacket. A shoulder holster, Alex assumed. There was no way past. The guard had a perfect viewpoint of the corridor, and it was only a matter of luck that Alex hadn't been spotted. He slowly withdrew around the corner, and pressed the 'Talk' button on the radio.

"Hello there! My name is Alex Rider, you might remember me, I tried to kill Mrs. Jones. Well, I'm back, and I'm inside! Catch me if you can!" He depressed the button and listened. There was a moment of silence, and then the channel erupted into a cacophony of alarm. A man with a loud, booming voice commanded the guards to split up and spread out, and made a special note to send at least a dozen armed men to the fire escape, on the basis that it was that guard's radio he was using. Alex held his breath. The armed guard at the far end of the corridor strode through a small door, drawing his gun as he did so. Alex felt sick. The gun even looked ugly, a snub-nosed pistol that seemed to sniff the air like a pit bull terrier. As the door closed, Alex ran. His feet thumped down into the thick carpet. He was nearly at the lift, when the door opened, and the man emerged, holding his gun straight at him, blocking his path. Alex slowed down and stopped.

"Your name is Alex? Alex Rider?"

"Yes," Alex felt sick. He had wanted to put a spanner in the works, so to speak, to prove to MI6 that he could beat their challenge and get inside without being picked up or begging like a starving dog.

"Come with me. Mr. Blunt is expecting you." The man pointed to the lift, and Alex walked in, the man close behind, following his gun. The doors closed, and the man holstered his weapon. He drew a small key card and swiped it through a slot. The lift hummed, then dragged itself upwards like an ancient leviathan rising from the depths, dragging Alex to meet two of his least favourite people in the world.

"Ah, Alex," said the grey-eyed man sitting behind the desk, "We've been expecting you." Alex eyed Alan Blunt carefully, hoping, as always, to find some flicker of emotion behind his ironclad icy calm.

"We're so, so sorry, Alex," the room's only other occupant said. Her name was Mrs. Jones, and she rather liked Alex, despite the fact he had tried to kill her only a few months ago.

"If you're sorry, then why couldn't you stop them?"

"Because we didn't know until it was too late," Mr. Blunt stated, "Although I must say you seem to have done a sterling job at defending yourself. Our men found two unconscious men, one from a series of bullet wounds and the other from a blow to the head. Very good." Alex knew from past experience that 'very good' was Mr. Blunt's highest term of praise.

"Why don't you tell us the story Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked, "From your perspective, how you saw it." And Alex did. He recounted coming home, and finding Jack held at gunpoint. He retold how he shot the fleeing man, and how he defended himself from the sword-wielding man. He recalled the explosion as his home rippled into flames. He read out the note, and placed both it and the black envelope onto the desk in front of him. Mr. Blunt quickly sketched out the tattoo design and copied out the message, making little notes alongside in green ink.

"So," he pronounced, "The Angel Of Death rises again."

"Who are these people?" Alex asked tersely, "What do they want? What have they got against me?" Mrs. Jones spoke up.

"The Angel Of Death is a terrorist group, Alex, a very powerful, influential one, as strong as Al'Queda ever were. They are made up of dedicated patriots. Anti-British patriots. Every member is from a country that England has either made war upon or rules."

"Rules? We're not an empire!" Alex interjected.

"Of course we're not," she retorted, "But everybody knows that England governs various other countries. Northern Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, the Falklands, and so on. In each country, there is a small core of people who resent this. The IRA, for instance. Angel Of Death is the banner for these people. Nearly every Anglophobe wishes to be accepted into their ranks. They are a hardcore crack regiment, as large as the SAS and incredibly well trained. Their leader is a man called James O'Donnell, but the world's security forces know him as 'Jimmy The Ripper.' It's his nickname, as it were. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, especially after last week."

"What happened last week?" Alex asked.

"He stole a Triton nuclear missile," Mr. Blunt took up the narrative. "And we don't know what he's planning to do with it. All security in Britain has been tripled since the theft. We've already had a-" Mr. Blunt's words were cut off by a sound like an earthquake. All of a sudden, huge flames billowed outside the window, and smoke poured through the building as a massive explosion tore part of the building down. Alex raced through the door, desperate to help anybody injured. He worked his way down the building, but everyone seemed to be OK. Until he reached Smither's office. His friend, immensely fat as always, was bleeding badly. He gestured to Alex as he fell down, brushing an expensive computer system from his desk.

"Alex? Is that you?"

"Yes, Mr. Smithers. Are you hurt? Can I do anything?" Smithers laughed uneasily.

"No, Alex old boy, there's absolutely nothing you can do. I'm going to be fine, as soon as a doctor gets here, which shouldn't be too long." He sat up. "Tell me, do you plan to go after Angel Of Death yourself?"

"Yes." Revenge burned in Alex's eyes as he said it.

"In that case, you had better take some items with you," Smithers panted. He pressed a small button underneath his des, and a potted plant across the room hissed. The pot crumbled, the plant dissolved, and a brief smell of acid filled the air. In the ruins of the pot, Smithers held up a metal attaché briefcase. He turned it so that the opening part faced away from him, then flicked the catches. A long knife hissed out of the case, clicked, and withdrew itself back inside. Only then did Smithers turn it around and open it fully.

"Anti-theft device," he muttered at Alex's shocked expression. "Alright, here's what you need. Some of my better inventions, I think." He began pulling objects out of the case, starting with a thick manual. "This is the instruction manual. If it falls into enemy hands, all you have to do is pull a page out."

"What happens then?" Alex asked.

"It dissolves, of course! Wouldn't want those Anglophobic terrorists getting their hands on some of these beauties!" Smithers pulled out an Ipod, or something very similar. Alex had a sinking feeling. He'd heard about this one. "I call this the I-x-plod," Smithers boasted. "Fingerprint sensitive, and set to your left hand. All you have to do is turn the wheel three times anti-clockwise to arm it, and then set the timer. It doesn't work unless the headphones aren't plugged in, so be careful!" He withdrew a small Palmtop computer. "This is a little something I call the Napalm Organiser. Type in your name, and the infrared port turns into a flamethrower. As a little added bonus, pressing the 'ON/OFF' button five times in as many seconds will turn it into a perimeter mine." He drew out the second-to-last thing in the box. "This, my old friend, is what I call the Spy-ro pen. It doesn't use normal ink, as you might have guessed. Instead, it uses a very low pH acid that will eat through nearly anything. Oh, and it can also be used as a miniature stun gun. Simply remove the ink cartridge, hold it by the lid, and give your enemies a good jab. It'll knock them out for about three minutes, and it has a limited charge, so use it carefully!" He withdrew the last item. "This is a very special something that I haven't named yet. Be very careful with it, I'd like it back in one piece!"

"What is it, Mr. Smithers?" Alex asked.

"Well, I was watching an old James Bond film recently, _Licence To Kill_, and I saw how useful a lighter could be." He held up a small cigarette lighter. "Simply pull on each end and it will reveal a rather nice camera. It's got night vision and infrared capabilities, but that's not all!" He flicked it, and it lit. "This flame by itself is harmless, but it releases a gas into the air that will knock out any surveillance system nearby, and also makes the area invisible to radar."

"What about the flame itself? Isn't that kind of visible?"

"Glad you asked that, Alex! This little switch here makes the flame disappear!" he pressed it, and the flame vanished. "Well, it's still there, of course, but simply a clear colour. Totally invisible."

"Thanks Mr. Smithers," Alex said, sweeping the gadgets back into the suitcase, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The first thing next morning, Alex was on the train to Liverpool.

A/N: I apologise for the lack of major life-threatening action in this chapter, but it's vital for the story that Alex gets these gadgets. I also wanted to explain Angel Of Death a little, just so that Alex knows what he's up against )


	4. Treasure Hunt

Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.

Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.

Oh, and a big thank you to my most stringent reviewers Wandira, Rotten Bunnies and Remussweetie, thanks for the encouragement and criticism )

Angel Of Death Chapter 4:

Treasure Hunt

A short man stood at the platform, awaiting the train from London. He was stocky, around five foot five, and wearing a black hooded top, with matching pants. A small logo stood out on his breast pocket. An angel in silver thread, screaming silently, clutching a sword and a human heart, covered in blood, staring banefully at the world through hateful eyes. The Angel Of Death. He was here to follow Alex, and to make sure he didn't make any unexpected 'trips'. The train arrived and disgorged its innards, spewing cramped passengers out onto the underground train platform. The man raised himself up on tiptoes, trying to spot one fair-haired teenage boy from over thirty others. His eyes skimmed the crowds. Then he saw him. There could be no mistaking the look in his eyes, the hate, the dread, the sorrow, the vengefulness. He must be Alex Rider. The man ducked slightly as Alex passed, not wanting to be seen. A pickpocket's darting fingers brushing the man's right-hand pocket. Without even looking, the man calmly broke his fingers, then moved up to his wrist. The pickpocket squirmed and wriggled, trying to escape, but the man took no notice, his eyes still fixed on Alex. There was another audible _snap_, and the pickpocket screamed. The man slipped away as the crowd turned to assist the young thief.

Alex Rider walked through the streets with the confused air most tourists bring with them to Liverpool. He knew that the Crowne Plaza was somewhere on the waterfront, but he had no idea where. He turned the corner and saw a short man dart through the crowds behind him. Although Alex didn't recognise him, he caught a glimpse of a familiar logo on the man's top. The Angel Of Death. They were after him, most likely to make sure he got to the hotel. Well, in that case, he could give him a hand. Alex spun around and strode against the crowd, searching for the man. He found him quickly.

"Excuse me, but do you know the way to the Crowne Plaza hotel?" Alex asked, glaring into the man's eyes and fixing the familiar design on his hooded top into his memory. The man jumped, obviously aware that Alex knew who he was.

"Err, it's just over that way, around the corner. You can't miss it." Just like the man's accent, Alex thought. He clearly wasn't from Liverpool, with a broad Manchester accent, one that wouldn't make him any friends, given the rivalry between the two cities.

"Thanks!" Alex turned and sauntered in the opposite direction, safe in the knowledge that Angel Of Death wouldn't try anything in a crowded street. He had barely gone three steps before a tall woman bumped into him. Alex was knocked off balance, and only stayed upright because the lady grabbed his arm.

"Aw, sorry love!" she called, her Liverpool accent obvious. But not as obvious as the Angel Of Death design stamped onto her coat. Her eyes drilled into Alex's, and she twitched her coat aside to reveal a thick knife. The message was clear. _Don't play with us. Do what we say, or you'll become just another tourist who wandered into the wrong alley._ Alex nodded and turned. As he walked around the corner, he began to notice more and more people wearing the Angel Of Death. Two men wore it instead of the badge on Everton football shirts, a young woman wore it as a belly piercing, and a man stepped off a bus carrying a briefcase with the design emblazoned across the front. He bumped into another woman, and she fell over. As he helped her upright, she pointed behind him, over his shoulder. He turned, only to see the Angel Of Death screaming from a lonely window in a block of flats. When he turned around, the woman was still there. She put on a jacket against the cold Merseyside air, and the Angel's eyes blazed at Alex from her lapels. He ran. The people moved with him, slipping into position alongside and behind, herding him like a frightened sheep. A sheep, Alex wondered, or a lamb to the slaughter?

The Crowne Plaza Hotel looked the same inside as it did on the outside: Immaculate. The magnificent stone-grey walls were inside covered with cheerful, homely colours. Alex walked up to the reception desk.

"Hello there lad!" boomed a receptionist in a thick scouse prose. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi, I'm looking for-" The man cut him off.

"You're from London, right?" Alex nodded. "Name of Rider, by any chance?" He nodded again. "Well then, we've got two messages waiting for you. The first's here, in this envelope." He handed Alex a thick, heavy black paper envelope. "And the second will be down shortly. Feel free to have a drink and something to eat in our café." Alex mumbled his thanks, turned and sat down on a table at the fringe of the café. He ordered himself a Coke and settled down to wait. Underneath the table, however, he began to peel the stamp from the black envelope. He glanced down, and saw the silver Angel glaring sightlessly at him from underneath the first-class stamp. When he looked up, a man was sitting opposite him. He wore quietly expensive clothes, with leather gloves that sat elegantly on his thick hands. His brown hair had once been immaculately groomed, but the man had mussed it down self-consciously. His blue eyes bored into Alex, and his stubbled chin opened as he spoke.

"You are Alex Rider," he said it as a statement rather than a question.

"Yes."

"Good. If you weren't, I would have to kill you. Who knows? I might kill you anyway."

"What have you done with Jack?"

"Jack? Who's Jack?" The man's tone of voice changed, but not his eyes.

"You kidnapped her."

"Ah, _Jack_. Now that you mention her, the name does seem to ring a bell."

"Who are you and what do you want?" Alex whispered, hand reaching for a fork. If necessary, he would stab the man to death to save Jack from the world he had dragged her into.

"Who am I? I think we both know the answer to that," he laughed, actually seeming mirthful. His Irish accent was growing more pronounced every second. The man slipped a ring onto his finger, and the Angel screeched hatred and defiance from a bloodstained maw across the table. "You remember the letter I wrote to you?" Alex nodded, gritting his teeth. "Very good! My name is James O'Donnell, but some I choose the name 'Jack' most of the time. Quite a coincidence! I am the leader of the Angels Of Death, as you well know. Tell me, did our bomb kill anyone?"

"No. My house was deserted."

"Your house? I meant Liverpool Street. We were behind that one as well."

"I don't know. But if it did, then MI6 will hunt you down for the rest of your days. And if they don't, _I_ will!"

"How very touching, the teenager risking his life for his friend! But I think I know her better than you do, Alex. Her red hair isn't dyed, but she pretends that is anyway, for vanity reasons. She weighs exactly 100 pounds, and is five foot seven inches tall. She has UK size 6 feet. Want me to continue? Oh, how about your other American friend, Sabina? Weighing in at fifty kilograms as my Yankee associates tell me, at around one metre seventy tall, with US size eight feet? Black hair, uses perfume, constantly writes in her diary about how much she misses you?" Alex was dumbstruck. "The Angels Of Death are hardly lacking in information, Alex. If you disobey us now, then Jack dies, agonisingly slow and intensely painful. And we send you a little DVD, the entire affair on camera. And you will watch it, we assure you, it's your nature. And if you disobey us after that, we kill Sabina. A slow, agonising death. Then you get another package in the post, and you will watch it. You simply cannot refuse to. And if you disobey us after that, then I'm afraid we will have to kill you. And before you die, Alex, we will set you up as the biggest enemy of England that this country has ever seen. Do I have your attention now?" Dumbly, Alex nodded, aware that he couldn't bluff on stakes that high. He knew for a fact that the Angels Of Death wouldn't hesitate before killing Jack and Sabina. They'd probably enjoy it. "Excellent. In that case, I suggest you open your envelope. Good day!" With that, the Irishman left.

Alex ripped open the package. Inside was a smaller envelope, carefully padded. He opened it, and withdrew the four pieces of paper. Three were photographs, and the other was a letter. Alex scanned the letter.

_Dear Alex,_ it read,

We are sorry to inform you that you will have to make another journey. And after you reach that destination, you will be forced to make another, like a treasure hunt. Go to the Albert Docks, and enter the Tate Gallery. Do so before four o'clock today.

The letter was signed with the Angel Of Death. Alex looked at the photographs. The first showed Jack in a concrete cell. Her ankles were tied to the walls, and she was handcuffed. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes were torn, her lips were bleeding and her eyes were terrified. The photo was autographed, her signature in red ink, stamped over by the Angel Of Death. The second photo showed Sabina Pleasure, one of his best friends, asleep in bed. There was a knife held just above her throat. Again, the Angel authenticated the photograph. The last showed himself, sitting on the train. Alex was shocked. Did these people have the equipment to watch over everyone he cared about? Evidently so. He threw some change on the table and walked out, towards the Albert Docks.


End file.
